La Fheile Padraig
by brencon
Summary: John Paul and Craig celebrate St. Patricks Day as only the Irish can - green, Guinness, traditional music, silly beards, and more Guinness.


The kitchen was a sea of green, with banners, streamers, the different shades of balloons, surrounded by the odd dusting of Guinness cans piled high on the countertop as the Chieftains could be heard belting out of the iStation above the TV as the parade stormed through O'Connell Street.

As Craig laughed at the orange coloured wig that sat precariously above his head, John Paul was attempting to follow Caitrin as she taught him some simple (or at least simple to her, as John Paul had loudly pointed out) steps of Irish dancing, Craig couldn't have felt more at home than he did right now – the love of his life living their dream in Dublin, his mates around him already pissed to Nth degree as he celebrated the National Saint's day of his new found home.

"Oi, stop laughing at me Craig! It's more difficult than it looks!" John Paul whined, his leg once more coming in contact with the leg of the coffee table that was well out of reach. Caitrin crumpled beside Craig, her hand gripping to her stomach as she laughed her hardest.

Pausing to grab a breath, Caitrin reached for another can of the black stuff as her boyfriend Oisin tossed a toy Leprechaun at their other friend.

"Why are we sitting in here when the parade is happening just a few streets away?" John Paul asked, sitting himself between Craig's legs on the floor and taking the proffered can from Craig.

"Because it's only kids and tourists who go to the parade's here, proper Irish people stay at home drinking and watch it on the telly before hitting the pubs – it's like an institution here!" Oisin explained, stealing Caitrin's can and taking a number of sips.

"Besides, do you really want to point out that your English on thee most Irish day of the year?" Caitrin asked, laughing at the grimace that crossed JP's face at the thought.

"So what time will be hitting the pubs?" John Paul asked, leaning into the touch of Craig's hand on his shoulder.

"Round five… some really good bands play during the day, and they usually end up hanging round afterwards," Turlough said, "its mighty craic!" He exclaimed, pulling at the fake beard as it was irritating his skin. He gave up on that act and grabbed a small book that had come with that morning's Irish Independent. The title read 'Unknown facts about our patron saint' with the traditional picture of Saint Patrick casting out the snakes on the cover.

--

The conversation had deviated to what was true and what was false in their minds regarding the lore of Saint Patrick.

"It's a fact – there never has been and there never will be snakes in Ireland that aren't in a zoo or owned by weirdo's!" Oisin explained, tossing his now empty can into the trash and retrieving another. Craig, now slumped on the edge of the couch, was twirling his fingers through John Paul's hair as he read through the fact book sat up suddenly with a grin on his face.

"In the religion of Voodoo, St. Patrick has been called Dambala!" He read aloud, to the shocked faces of his Irish friends, whilst JP snatched the book from his hand to read the fact for himself before he cracked up in laughter.

"Voodoo? Seriously? Voodoo is a religion?" Caitrin asked, all too aware of the lies that her English friends told her to wind her up.

"Says it right here in black and white!" John Paul replied, holding the book out to her so she could read it herself.

"That's a load of shite! Who thinks that we'll believe this rubbish?" Oisin snorted into his can as his mind swam with drunken thoughts.

"Hey, no one made you say that all these facts were true!" Craig countered, kissing the top of JP's head – just cause he could.

"Yes they did," Oisin exclaimed, pointing his finger at Turlough, "he did, he made me!"

John Paul once more shouted out loudly in laughter at the aghast look crossing the burly Irish mans face.

--

Having scoured away to their room to escape the discussion of whether Dustin the Turkey's '40 shades of green' should become the new national anthem or not, John Paul and Craig were making the most of noise below to make their own sweet music – even if it was just above the shirt petting.

Craig groaned at the touch of John Pauls hand to his aroused nipples as he pinched them through his flimsy t-shirt.

"Oh God, John!" he moaned, resting his head on the pillow as John Paul kissed his neck, enticing his skin as he arousal spread swiftly through his system.

It was to his annoyance that the loud thumping to their bedroom door came.

"Oi, get some clothes on, ya nymphos! Its pub time!" came Oisin's voice. It was followed by the loud giggles of Caitrin and Turlough.

"We hadn't gotten that far – yet!" Craig called out, moaning as John Paul's touch left his body. Pressing one final, mind-blowing kiss to Craig's lips, John Paul stood up and tossed him his jacket.

"It's not that cold out," Craig said, wondering what he needed it for.

"Because little Craig is saluting."

Craig blushed, dragged the coat on and tossed John Paul his own.

"It's your own fault I'm this way, you get my engine revving and leave me in park! And you know well there is nothing 'little' about my other head!"

"If you two don't hurry up, I'm going to break this door down and drag ye out meself, even if your not dressed for public viewing!" Oisin growled, which was once more followed by giggles.

"Alright, we're coming!" Craig called out, which made John Paul chortle. Throwing him a look to ask what was funny, John Paul replied, "Wait for it."

And sure enough, the sound of gagging came echoing through the cracks in the door.

"Too much information!" Turlough shouted.

"I could stand to hear some more," Caitrin commented.

Opening the door, the blushing on Craig's cheeks sent the other four into another giggle session.

"Shut up and lets go get hammered," he muttered, causing more laughter.

Oisin, the first to calm himself, called out, "Bring on the Ted Fest!" which resulted in more questions from the English folk as they made their way from the flat to the nearest pub.


End file.
